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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910953">Exalting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosybyoliviahye/pseuds/rosybyoliviahye'>rosybyoliviahye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Based on Leroux-verse, Other, Self-Doubt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:33:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosybyoliviahye/pseuds/rosybyoliviahye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine still loves Erik's voice, she thinks. No. She's sure.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Exalting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He speaks in rhymes and riddles, hushed and unsure in third person, like a practiced recluse author. A penny dreadful come alive, though with his angular frame, there is much to guess if there is any life left in him at all. A voice thick like the gravel that coats Parisian streets, sleek and sharp. Deep and dark, molasses laced with poison, a funeral march. Something chilling, not of this earth.</p><p> </p><p>Earthy it was for her in the past, his voice, before… before <em> this</em>. Like the slivers of rich dark chocolate wrapped in silver that Raoul slipped her in between the bundles of flowers that were left upon her rooms after a successful show. As tender as her dear old Baba's strong embrace during those harsh Swede winters, keeping her as warm as his practiced playing that stirred her to the core of her soul. Steadying her, like the shot of whiskey Meg had snuck for the pair to share after a particular grueling practice session, warm, adrenaline high and tittering at the thought of being caught.</p><p> </p><p>But, then <em> this</em>. </p><p> </p><p>A twisting domino chain of events that have stalked her throughout her life resume once more, however this time, knocking itself twice as hard than usual on Christine's poor little head. She has gotten to this cruel knock of the fates, bursting into her life just as she thinks she's turning herself around only for it to grab at her by the shoulders and shaking her fiercely and screaming, "Wake up and face reality!"</p><p> </p><p>If she could list them all, all of these shortcomings that have befallen her in the form of currency, she would be a wealthy woman even to rival the De Chagny's.</p><p> </p><p>As chilling as it is, this sort of <em> situation, </em>she loved his comforting, sturdy bass, she thinks. </p><p> </p><p>No. She's sure of it.</p><p> </p><p>At the sight of her, he crumples down to his feet to the dirty dungeon floor, downtrodden hands grasping weakly at the lace of her luminiscente gown of pearl.</p><p> </p><p>“Erik is at your service once more.” His whisper echoes throughout the catacombs, tears wetting her dress, his yellowed cat’s eyes flickering at her in the candlelight.</p><p> </p><p>Holding her head up high, tongue heavy in her mouth as she manages to let out an airy, “Very well."</p><p> </p><p>Bringing a delicate hand to her face, Christine touches her cheek and finds that like her Angel's, it is wet.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, she adores his voice, his music. She did and she does.</p><p> </p><p>Doesn't she?</p><p> </p>
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